


Three

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood Play, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:48:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’d been no talking about their last encounter; there had been no resolution, just a prolonged longing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three

**Author's Note:**

> This was a freewrite as I was making dinner and chatting on the phone. So... it is what it is. I wrote it and then I had Dennis make some comments and I submitted it. A writing exercise I hope you enjoy and if you don't, well, shucks I suppose.

It had been a whirlwind the first time, an amalgamation of danger and the razor’s edge of death. They’d skated over it without a second thought, bullets flying past their heads and between the sweat and the heaving breaths they’d managed a cab back to Baker street, had begged off Lestrade and his witness statements and Sherlock had ended up on his knees with John’s cock in his mouth.

Ass backwards, when John thought about it. If he thought about it, which he didn’t. He didn’t think about it until dark would fall over the flat and the rest of London would find slumber, he would think about the positively _nothing_ that Sherlock had said as he’d swallowed his length and had sucked him as though he’d needed it to survive.

Perhaps he did. 

Perhaps he did, he could _understand_ if he did, but it was all ass backwards. Fucking the consulting detective’s mouth rough and filthy against the door of 221b hadn’t changed the fact that John Watson was in a desperate sort of infatuated love with Sherlock Holmes, nor did it change the fact that he’d yet to tell or want to tell the man.

Ass backwards, everything.

“John, stop,” the last words he’d heard from the man before Sherlock’s hand had come up and palmed his throat, index finger feeling for the pulse at his carotid before glancing to and fro against his adam’s apple. Still, his name, tethering him to the present, helping to keep the thought sounding in his mind, ‘This is Sherlock, this is Sherlock wanting to fuck me.’ Then it had been brash, the entirety of Sherlock’s hand pressing his throat back, head landing dully against the door as Sherlock bit at his jaw, once, twice.

All the while working his other hand at John’s belt and button and zip.

Just like that, a familiar, pale, _strong_ hand in his pants, cupping him somehow both desperately hard and delicately, hot breaths puffed out against his cheek. There was no time to refuse (did he even want to?) as Sherlock sagged, his calves taking the brunt of his weight until he situated himself on the worn carpet, legs spread and he had tugged John’s trousers down as far as able in that position. 

Game over, then. All bets off and every other saying in the book when a deft tongue had darted out to swipe at his glans, suckling at the tip. Sherlock had hummed when he tasted the precome at John’s head and by that point, back of his skull against the door and eyes rolled to blackout, John was far past succummbing.

His hips thrust wantonly in the way that he’d always wished he could hold back on when this had happened before with others and Sherlock’s right hand curling into his asscheek hard had kept him in check. Thick wool constricted the body heat yearning to escape his skin and the sweat that had pricked at his temples slid down John’s jaw and pooled uncomfortably in the hollow of his collarbones before being absorbed by his jumper.

His hands faltered against the wood of the door, slid over and around before Sherlock grab his left wrist harshly and forced a hand into his hair. John had settled there, fingers carding through the damp curls erratically until the man hummed around his length and it pulled at John, the sound tugged at his balls, his very _being_ and his fingers tightened in Sherlock’s hair and _pulled_.

He felt it more than heard it, the happy hum that Sherlock gave at the slight bite of pain. 

If he could define insanity John would surely pinpoint this very happening as the penultimate definition. But he couldn’t think, could just feel Sherlock’s right hand ghost over his testicles as he twisted his lips down as far as he could possibly go. 

John had to hold his breath, deeply, as he bottomed out against the back of Sherlock’s throat because after the slick bump of head against tongue Sherlock went further, relaxing. John slid just the slightest bit down and into Sherlock’s throat. The other man’s exhale came in a stuttered puff into the thick hair above John’s cock and that was it.

Combustion.

“Sha-” John tried and dug his nails so deeply into the man’s scalp that he wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d drawn blood.

Instead of stopping, Sherlock had pulled back the slightest bit and settled his hands on John’s hips and steadied John as he came. Sherlock rode it through with him and when John had spent himself he had swallowed thickly, glancing up at John briefly with crystalline eyes.

Sherlock stood, licked his lips and had walked to his room, shutting the door firmly behind him. 

That had been the first time.

The second had been just as harried, just as frantic and hot and slick and without thought. It hadn’t come on the tail end of a chase or a particularly difficult case. John had tackled a suspect against the pavement, a dumb little nineteen year old shit who’d been burglarizing wealthy women of Notting Hill. The kid had fought back, had managed to gash his knife into John’s shoulder before the army doctor’s right hook had “accidentally” fractured the kid’s jaw.

Cut and dry really, nothing John couldn’t handle; the cut was superficial, no muscle damage, just a bit of a slice though his skin that would need a plaster or two over the next few days but no stitches; he’d had it cleaned and taped by the paramedics. Exciting, it was not, but once they had finished with the detectives and had walked the crime scene techs though the mania of the scene they’d headed back towards Baker Street on foot, in high spirits.

There wasn’t much conversation but for John suggesting takeaway and Sherlock begging off, suggesting pizza delivery. John had agreed easily enough and they’d fallen into a meandering gait as they crossed the streets of London.

Back at the flat, John had taken it upon himself to order two pizzas, one with pepperoni and one without and had shrugged off his heavy coat with an eye towards the even slice through the shoulder. ‘Not my bad shoulder, at least,’ John had mused, hanging up the coat whilst wondering if they had any needle and thread in the flat.

His fingers prodded the hole in the coat absent-mindedly; he hadn’t heard Sherlock traipse up behind him but he’d felt him as he got close, body heat radiating dangerously. “Please turn around,” the voice had demanded, strong, thick, needy. 

John startled, went stock still as he dropped his hand to his side and shuffled around to face Sherlock, slower than he’d meant to, moving through molasses. 

Immediately, the detective’s gaze was drawn to the wound, his face slackening, devoid of emotion. “John,” gentle fingers snaked up and over John’s shoulder, slid within centimeters of the still-weeping wound and stopped. “I will-” the detective began, surely a threat on his tongue before he sucked in a quick, steadying breath through his nose and dipped his head, the flat of his tongue laying over the wound.

John nearly sagged to the ground, nearly; if it hadn’t been for Sherlock’s arm around his waist he surely would have. God, that mouth, that _mouth_ was all John could comprehend in the moment until the gentle sting in his shoulder slammed him back to reality. His blood, Sherlock was actively tasting his _blood_ and it was-

Unsafe.

Strange.

Taboo.

But a lick, two and Sherlock nuzzled his nose up and into the crook of John’s neck; Sherlock was undeniably in love with him and now he knew. Sherlock inches back down, laid his mouth at John’s shoulder and suckled, laving over the wound until John felt nothing but the odd brush of tongue against skin, a tickling sensation. 

There’d been no talking about their last encounter; there had been no resolution, just a prolonged longing. It had just made John long to take Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, just to see, just to taste, just to prove to him what he felt but not to communicate vocally. This, if this was to be the same, John thought he might break, might shatter, might simply end. In a moment of clarity, John brought his hands up to Sherlock’s neck, his hair and tugged a bit until he’d aligned their lips, pressing in desperately. “Please,” John begged, _begged_ , his voice hitching appropriately as the pit of his stomach dropped out.

Sherlock’s tongue against his and his blood and the taste of Sherlock and so fucking madly desperately gone for the man that John simply rutted against him, hard. A sob tore out of his throat, not from pleasure but from the painful buildup of grieving for emotions not yet spoken and accepted. Sherlock too sobbed, gasped into John, held fast like a vice and moved his clothed groin against John’s, hard, hard, hard.

Fast.

Friction. 

When Sherlock bit into his neck - so hard, so sharp - and John cried out, arching up with every sensory movement he had left in his being, everything stopped. Hard and gasping against one another, Sherlock tore his head away and looked into John’s eyes. Wide and unabashed, opened and accepting and wanting, mirror images of one another.

“John,” Sherlock warned.

“Sherlock,” he warned right back and moved against him hard and came. Sherlock was seconds behind, gasping as he bit his bottom lip too hard, drawing blood.

John had leaned in and sucked, sucked until his head spun and Sherlock had ran and hid in his room. 

Only twelve-hours and thirty-seven minutes separated the second occurrence from the third. A short span of time in general but an eternity to John Watson. Three hours of fitful sleep followed by six or so of quiet introspection; six hours during which John consistently wondered whether he could still taste Sherlock on his tongue. 

Left side to the right, right side to left on his mattress over and over again until the bedding chafed his skin and he’d driven himself halfway crazy. Hands tearing at his hair, sometime around nine in the morning and his door had creaked slowly open. John did nothing, said nothing, just waited for the door to reveal Sherlock beyond it, ghostly pale, staid and perfectly still. 

John blinked, took in the man’s frame in a glance and then ran hands over his own face, “Don’t apologize,” John deadpanned and as he pulled his hands away, he heard Sherlock move into the room, strides strong and sure.

“I’d no intention,” Sherlock croaked as he ambled into John’s bed without invitation and took up residence on the free pillow, face to face with his flatmate. 

It didn’t take much, John’s hand on Sherlock’s hip and a slow blink of acquiescence and then lips on lips and body against body. It was a blinding moment of pleasure-pain and John inside of him that Sherlock finally _spoke_. “John you can’t ever stop, you understand?”

It was a gasp, a plea, a prayer. “Never, never,” Sherlock repeated and sobbed into John’s ear where it was tucked tightly against his neck.

“Never,” John promised and held on to Sherlock as tightly as his body would allow.


End file.
